


The Hurricane

by sistercacao



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 09:17:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13521213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sistercacao/pseuds/sistercacao
Summary: The loneliness of Mars makes you do funny things. Like send a letter you never meant anyone to read. On a stormy Martian night, Quatre discovers maybe he doesn't have to be lonely after all.





	The Hurricane

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the GW fic exchange in 2011.

The fortieth floor of Winner Enterprises' Mars Headquarters boasted a spectacular view of what people called the Great Eastern Desert, the endless red expanse that stretched for miles beyond the domed edge of the oxygenated section of the planet. The day's forecast had called for a sandstorm, and the desert had delivered. A massive red cloud blotted out the earth and moon on the horizon, swirling angrily overhead, pelting the dome with gritty dust, as if trying to reclaim the land within. This planet was still wild and unbroken, and the slowly encroaching grasp of mankind had yet to tame it.  
  
Quatre watched the Martian wind rain sand across the glass, the paperwork he had stayed late to finish forgotten on his desk. It was beautiful, in a way, he thought. When their work was finished, these sandstorms would be extinct; dead, barren ground would give way to grass and sky and atmosphere. Perhaps a bit of desert would be preserved on the planet, a reminder to the generations to come of what man had managed to accomplish on this empty rock, but it would no longer hold this same wild power. It would be tamed, cowed, like a tiger in a zoo. A lion in a circus.  
  
Quatre let out a small laugh. His mind was taking him strange places tonight. Perhaps it was time to head home.  
  
He took a look around his darkened office, the small light at his desk the only illumination. Yes, the paperwork could wait. It was late, and watching the storm outside was making him strangely melancholy. There had been sandstorms like this on Earth; he had watched quite a few from the safety of his cockpit, marveling at the savage beauty of the world.  
  
And there had been a few rare, precious instances where he had not marveled alone, times when two young boys had taken shelter together from the heat and blinding sand-- but then again, those times he had barely been paying attention to the storms at all. There had been someone much more special, much more beautiful, to marvel at.  
  
Quatre sighed and stood from his chair.  
  
“That's enough,” he said to no one.  
  
But that strange sadness had already crept around his heart, and the words did little to shake it.  
  
The Martian base was technically Preventers' property, inhabited almost wholly by Agents and engineers, and thus was as silent and deserted as a tomb at night. Everyone was in a hurry to rush home in the afternoon, as if to hasten the next day along. One more day at work was one day closer to their mission ending, one day closer to returning to their families, to the homes waiting for them elsewhere in the galaxy.  
  
Quatre had no such home waiting for him, so he could afford to wander along the street on his way back to his apartment. He passed the Preventers' headquarters, another glass-and-steel monolith among the drab military barracks that surrounded it. There were a few lights on in the rooms above. Had the people in them also lingered to watch the storm as well? Did the violent whirl of red dust stir something in their memories, too?  
  
He wondered who could be up there in those lit rooms, who could be lonely like him.  
  
A few months before, on another night like this, that loneliness had gripped him even tighter, and he had sent out a message in a moment of weakness, a request that he had regretted sending the moment he had pressed the key. He still wasn't sure whether he was relieved or heartbroken to have never received a response.  
  
It was dark and murky on the street outside his apartment, the twisting red miasma still howling overhead, the hiss of the dust pelting the glass following him through the lobby and into the elevator, where the piped-in melody trickling from the speakers drowned it out for good. He glanced at himself in the mirrored wall on the way up, idly wondering when bags had formed under his eyes. Was his work here really so tiring? Or was this exhaustion of a different kind?  
  
The elevators opened to the twelfth floor and he walked out, fishing his keys from his jacket pocket. God, it felt late. He had stayed at work much too long. Perhaps he would skip dinner entirely and just head to bed once he got inside. The walk to his apartment down the ornate hallway felt like an eternity. Up ahead was a bend to the right, his apartment just beyond that. Yes, he was certainly tired. He'd just have to make sure not to miss breakfast in the morning.  
  
His mind made up, he turned the corner and froze.  
  
A young man sat in front of his apartment door, his back resting against the heavy wood. At his side was a duffel bag, looking rather worse for wear, though the baggage claim ticket from the Martian shuttle port still gleamed new on one side. The man's eyes were closed, his breathing deep and even in sleep.  
  
How long had he been waiting here? Quatre had stayed so late at the office, it could have been a very long time indeed. And he had been... the whole time he'd been...  
  
Heart flat-lining in his chest, he took a step forward, another, and all at once those eyes slid gently open, revealing a deep, captivating green, turning to regard him behind a sweep of brown hair.  
  
Trowa smiled.  
  
“Quatre.”  
  
Was this really happening?  
  
“Why... why are you here?”  
  
Trowa picked himself gracefully up off the ground, still watching him intently.  
  
“You asked me to come.”  
  
His heart lurched. It had been too much, the loneliness, the longing. It had been a moment of weakness. A message, sent before he could stop himself. And there had never been a response.  
  
No, not quite, he realized. He was face to face with the response right now.  
  
“You didn't have to,” he heard himself say.  
  
And now Trowa was closing the distance between them, those strong arms wrapping around his shoulders and pulling him, unobjecting, against him.  
  
“Yes I did.”  
  
His arms came up to grip the fabric of Trowa's jacket, digging in fiercely, unwilling to let go. He buried himself against the collar of Trowa's shirt, breathed him in, let the memories held tightly in his heart unfurl, let them flow through him. This was home, here in this warmth, in the sweet pain flooding his chest. He felt fingers in his hair at the base of his neck, and they guided him up to meet the delicate mouth searching out his own. He let Trowa steal his breath away. This was what home felt like.  
  
“Trowa...”  
  
“All you ever had to do was ask,” that quiet voice breathed against his ear, followed by the warm press of soft lips. “I didn't think you needed me.”  
  
Quatre responded with a desperate kiss. Of course he did. Oh, how much he did.  
  
They fumbled their way through his door, breaking apart momentarily to lock it, to gather their bearings inside the darkened room. In the window, the red storm raged and howled with savage grace, still wild, a lion still free from its cage.  
  
Arms tangled around his waist, and that beloved voice whispered again in his ear.  
  
“This storm brings back memories, doesn't it?”  
  
Quatre twisted in the grip, bringing his hands up to frame Trowa's face, fingers tracing the contours of his jawline. He watched the storm swirl in the green of Trowa's gaze, reflected back, made immeasurably more beautiful through them.  
  
“I'm not sure,” he said, as he pulled Trowa down to him again. “Maybe you should remind me.”


End file.
